


Like Poets

by BlueMoonHound



Series: Lucretia [9]
Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Minor Character Death, More hurt less comfort, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-03-05 07:53:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13383453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueMoonHound/pseuds/BlueMoonHound
Summary: They were a thing. He knows this on early mornings when she holds him and cries static words into his hair. He knows Angus is his son. He doesn't remember their thing, he just know it happened, he knows he loves her and he knows she loves him and he feels safe in that knowledge. He's not living with a complete stranger. He's living with his special someone, a person he cares deeply about. He's nervous about classifying their relationship when he can't even remember his whole name.





	Like Poets

**Author's Note:**

> my friend [Addy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/addy_is_not_a_laddy/pseuds/addy_is_not_a_laddy) nudged me to write this. Man, tho, it sure got away from me.

By the time she makes it to him, it feels too late. It feels like she's destroyed everything. Her heart patters in her chest at a million miles a minute. Davenport's sitting against his chair, and he looks dead. _He looks dead_. Merle's unconscious on the floor on the other side of the room, but Davenport's eyes are open, unseeing. She hits the floor too hard, probably bruising her kneecaps. Touches his face.

“Andrew?”

He doesn't respond. Her fingers search at his neck for a pulse. When she finds it, the relief is tangible- but it's too fast, too erratic. Fuck.

“Captain. Davenport. Love, can you hear me. Can you hear me?” She's probably asking too much of the universe right now. _He's not listening, Lucretia. He can't hear you_.

She sits there, talking to him, tears working their way down her face, for longer than she thinks she ought to. Finally, she sits back, picks him up, and puts him to bed. He's warm in her arms, which is something. He seems so much smaller than she recalls. Less than a man.

She plops down on the end of their bed and leans against the wall. He looks so _sick_.

And he doesn't get better. When he wakes up, he doesn't seem to recognize her. He doesn't seem to recognize himself. He blinks at her, far away, dissociated from existence and reality and completely ungrounded. He says his own name, over and over. It makes her nauseous.

In fact, she does – she retches over the toilet for half an hour, curls up on the floor and closes her eyes.

Before she nuked his brain, Davenport would have checked on her. He would have brought her a glass of water and sat with her, companionably silent, till she woke up.

She thought it'd be okay, she could get him a job in Rockport and check in on him. She could let him live his own life how she'd planned already to do with all her other friends. It'd be fine, it'd be okay. But when he woke up saying nothing but his own surname, staring blank eyed at everything before him, she knew that wasn't an option anymore. She pulled him to her side and let emptiness fill her body like the static that filled the minds of those she loves.

 

It's easy to believe that nausea and weird cravings are a result of anxiety when one recently erased the minds of all her friends. It's easy to ignore the elephant in the room when she weighs herself down with paperwork.

Lucretia knows the truth on some level, but she doesn't want to admit to it.

 

There's a gaping hole in his chest. It tugs at him.

 _You can trust Lucretia_ , he knows. It's a solid form in the static wash of his brain. He loves Lucretia, but he's not sure why. Lucretia fills a lot of the emptiness, like a puzzle piece that fits in one quarter of his sockets. It's not enough to truly ground him, but it's something, and it's something good.

She gets them hotel rooms for a while, eventually renting a little cabin out in the sticks. Davenport clings to clarity like an old sticker trying to stay on a window.

Lucretia meets a man named Mcdonald, an older human, and starts heading out with him more often. She comes back with information, supplies, and one day, a white oak staff. Months pass in slow rhythm.

Davenport knows Lucretia isn't taking care of herself. He can't tell her to go to sleep on late nights when she should be resting, because he doesn't have the words. He can't rub her back or fetch her tea or sing to her. He's missing too many bits and pieces.

He can, however, take away her wine one night and pour it into the toilet.

“What-- Davenport?” Lucretia stands up, steadies herself on the back of the couch. He fills the wineglass with water as best he can and trots back out of the bathroom.

“Davenport,” he scolds, folding his arms.

“I haven't even had one glass yet! I'm not drunk!”

“Davenport,” he says again, stepping forward. He puts a hand against her belly, feeling the taut skin there. She makes a squeaky noise, then deflates.

“I know,” she sighs, falling back onto the couch. Her head lands in her hands. “I know. I'd hoped it'd be something else, or that it'd go away, or I'd miscarry, but… I guess there's really not much I can do.” She chokes. “It's too late.”

Davenport climbs onto the couch next to her and wraps her in his arms.

They sit there, Lucretia sobbing into his shoulder. Davenport is lost to a haze of static, trying to hard to think about the meaning of the situation. He's never known Lucretia to have a lover, has he? He doesn't even know how long he's known Lucretia.

Lucretia keeps going out, disappearing for days, returning looking haggard and tired. She keeps doing work. But when she's at home, near Davenport, she doesn't drink alcohol, and she goes to bed when she's tired. Davenport figures out how to make heating packs with socks full of rice that he can warm up by the fire before she goes to sleep at night. She even eats more, sometimes, especially if he nudges her to the kitchen in the morning and stands there till she makes herself breakfast. It's not like he can make it for her.

_You have to take care of me, woman, you better take care of yourself._

 

Davenport wakes up in the middle of the night to a scream. His thoughts, scrambled as always, struggle to assert themselves in a reasonable fashion in his brain. Two words manage to align themselves: _Lucretia_ , and _pain_. He scrambles out of bed, falls to the floor, and drags himself headfirst into Lucretia's bedroom.

She's going into labor.

Davenport's brain chooses this moment to shut down. He grabs her hand and listens to her scream and rests his head against the mattress, trying to focus.

It feels like hours pass before a hand slides through Davenport's hair. He feels Lucretia shift. The baby cries. Davenport wades through fog and static to the present, trying to bring himself clarity.

“Hey, It's okay,” Lucretia says. Her legs roll over the edge of the bed and she tries to stand, but Davenport thinks to push her back.

“Davenport,” he says, for lack of a better word. He holds her in place.

Lucretia reaches for the child still lying on the bed and bundles it up in some sheets. She holds it down for him to see. He peers at its tiny form, too small to be entirely human.

“I know,” she breathes. “He looks so much like you.”

He wants to hold the child, but his head hurts, so he sits down on the floor instead, rubbing his temples. _Looks so much like you_.

“Oh Davenport, I'm sorry, I just thought...” She slides off the bed and kneels down in front of him, still holding the baby. “How about Angus. It's a good name.”

“Angus,” Davenport manages. When he looks up, she's choking back tears. He forces himself to his feet, blinking through the pain, and wipes away the tears that have fallen. “Davenport.” _Don't cry_.

“I can't—” She takes a deep breath. “I can't take care of you both. I have… I have a mission. I can't raise a child, it would take too long. We have to take him planetside.”

“Davenport?”

“I know.” The baby snuffles against her chest. “Mr. Mcdonald said he'd help in any way he can.” She makes a face. “He probably didn't think of _this_.”

“Davenport.”

 

"Mr. Mcdonald, I'm so sorry to drop a child on you like this, but I'm glad you offered...” She takes a breath. “Davenport... well he isn't what he used to be, and I don't think I could take care of both of them." Her voice is clogged with tears. Davenport pushes through the haze and fog in an attempt to remember.

“Oh,” Mr. Mcdonald looks at the child. “He's yours?” He glances at Davenport. Davenport fights the urge to hide behind Lucretia like a toddler.

“Yes,” Lucretia says.

“What's his name?”

“Angus.”

“Angus Davenport.” Mr. Mcdonald holds out his arms, and Lucretia hands the baby to him. Something in Davenport's chest tugs, a little too hard.

“Davenport,” he mutters, glancing at Lucretia.

“Angus Mcdonald,” she corrects.

“Right,” Mr. Mcdonald says. “Angus Mcdonald.” His lips purse into a fine line. “Are you disowning him?”

“No! Well. Well, I don't know that it would be the best idea for him to know… I don't know. I suppose not. I'd rather he legally be under your name, though.” She sighs. “Legally, neither me nor Davenport exist.”

“Oh! That… makes some sense, I suppose.”

“Should I keep that from him?”

“I'm not going to tell you to lie to him, but he shouldn't know who I am.”

“Lucretia, I'm not entirely sure who you are.”

“He shouldn't know my name.” She tugs at a sleeve. “It could… compromise my mission.” She sighs, heavy, and runs her hand through her hair.

“Hm.”

The baby burbles.

“Will I be seeing you again?”

“I hope so,” Lucretia says.

Davenport slides his hand into hers and gave her hand a squeeze. She looks down, gives him a watery smile. It makes him worry, because it's not her smile, it's just a smile, it's lacking the joy and peace and happiness he remembers through a haze of static fog. Whatever took his memory, it took bits of Lucretia from him too, and it makes him deflate.

“We should be going,” Lucretia says, turning back to Mr. Mcdonald. “Thank you so much. For everything.”

“Oh, well it's no problem.” He holds the baby close to his chest. “Take care. Both of you.”

“You too,” Lucretia says.

“Davenport,” Davenport echoes.

 

They were a thing. He knows this on early mornings when she holds him and cries static words into his hair. He knows Angus is his son. He doesn't remember their thing, he just know it happened, he knows he loves her and he knows she loves him and he feels safe in that knowledge. He's not living with a complete stranger. He's living with his special someone, a person he cares deeply about. He's nervous about classifying their relationship when he can't even remember his whole name.

He makes her tea one morning, when she's fallen asleep on her notebooks again in the kitchen. His hands shake as he tries to remember the steps. Teabag. Kettle. Don't burn your hands. He gets down the potholders, and has to be very careful when pouring the water into the teapot. He's mostly successful. He has to rush across the room because he forgot to turn off the stove, but otherwise it's fine.

When she wakes up, he comes over with a cup of tea in his trembling hands.

“Thank you, ~~And~~ ~~r~~ -” she stops herself, static halfway out of her mouth. “Davenport.” She sighs and takes the tea.

“Davenport.” He puts a hand on her arm. She sips her tea and looks at him.

“Is that so.”

He puts his other hand on her arm. “ _Davenport_ ,” he insists.

“Listen, Davenport, I'm sorry, I don't know what you're saying.”

She sounds so _tired_.

“Davenport.” He cradles his arms like he's holding a baby.

“Angus is with Mr. Mcdonald,” she says. She looks far away, now. Davenport drops it. There's no way he's going to communicate his concerns to her. He can't even remember what they were.

He wanders back to his room.

 

It was a constant internal battle, right from the start. She was scared to leave him this empty, but scared he'd hate her if she brought him back to his senses. Afraid he'd stop her. Gods know she doesn't have the confidence to tell anyone no, let alone her captain and boyfriend.

So despite the long nights, despite the tears and the glassy look in his eyes, despite herself, Lucretia doesn't give Davenport any ichor to drink. He remains in the dark. She hopes that this ignorance is bliss. She hopes it doesn't hurt him too much.

She pays close attention to what makes him wince, or sit down, or rub at his temples, and she avoids it.

He seems to know that they're close. There's nights when, at three AM, he comes into her office and grabs her with his suprisingly strong gnome arms and drags her back to her bed, and curls up next to her, warm in her arms. It's days like those that she's almost glad he's too vague and lost to live on his own.

There's also nights when she'll be drinking, because she's done with the planar system at large, and he'll come in with a glass of water.

“I'm sorry, Davenport,” she mumbles, one such evening, her head lolling back onto a bookshelf. She got herself a straw a little earlier in a moment of incredible forethought so she could drink from her wineglass without necessarily moving her head. “Din't… mean to hurt you so much. Ykno? Just. Just tryina do what's best.” She sips her wine.

“Davenport,” he consoles.

“Do you want some wine?” She offers him the bottle. It's cheap fantasy costco shit, but Davenport can't remember the kind of wine he used to like, can he?

He nods. She pours him a glass. He sips it, grimaces, but doesn't stop drinking, sitting against her desk, facing her.

As drunk as she is, it almost feels like a normal evening. She clings to that feeling.

If only he'd say something besides his own name.

* * *

“When you were just a baby, when I was younger and more spry, a human woman and a gnomish man came to my door. The woman had you cradled in her arms. You were so small, not even the hair on your tail was completely grown in.”

Angus purrs a little, his grandpa running his finger down his ear, through his hair. It's his favorite story to listen to, even though he knows he's chasing after bullshit when he thinks of his parents. He doubts that they'll matter so much to him once he meets them, but he wants to meet them. They sound so interesting. They're a mystery for him to solve.

“The lady had helped me out of a few tight spots in the past few months. She's incredible, Angus. So capable and talented and magical. By our second to last meeting, she was heavy with child. It didn't stop her from saving me from a lich.”

“What happened then, Grandpa?” Angus asks, already falling asleep.

“She came to my door a month after that, with you and your father. He only said his own name. She told me it was too much work, to have to care for her lover and her child, and she needed to cash in on that favor I had offered. So I took you in.”

“Mm.” Angus says, rolling on his side.

“Goodnight, sweetie.”

“Goodnight, grandpa.”

He turns out the light and leaves the room.

 

It's amazing the number of species that Humans are capable of reproducing with. Elves, of course, are the most common, but Angus knew about half-gnomes long before he knew about half-elves, mostly because he's one of them. He looked pretty much like a standard gnome for a while, Small, with ratty teeth, floppy ears and a tail, but that ended when he was eight and he hit a growth spurt that put him in the four foot range.  _Definitely  not a normal gnome, then_.

He notices other differences, too, as the years pass. His ears are the wrong shape. His canines are blunter. His skin is softer, less designed for crafting and cave-dwelling than most gnomes. He figured out at this point that he's at least half human, after hours of staring in a mirror and reading in the library and comparisons. It's the only conclusion he could reach.

He sits in front of the mirror, wiggling his ears, running fingers through his tail. These things seem too normal to him. He wonders what it's like to not have a tail, to be fully human. Or not so tall, fully gnomish, with better dark vision and sharper teeth.

“Dinner's ready!” calls up the stairs one evening, rousing Angus from thought. Angus hops down the stairs, tail swishing behind him.

“You know, red's an odd hair color for a gnome,” Mr. Mcdonald says as he hits the ground floor, ruffling his curls. “You take after your dad, though, in that respect. A gnome with red hair!” he chuckles.

“What do you know about my parents, Grandpa?” Angus says. He's always feeding the kid new tidbits of information, tantalizing stories about the time when his mother (or lady guardian, as he sometimes called her) saved Mr. Mcdonald from this or that or the next thing. He doesn't have a lot of stories about Angus's dad, though.

“Nothing I haven't already told you,” Mr. Mcdonald replies. You have your mother's eyes and your father's hair. They left you when you were a baby. I've told the story before.”

“Mom told you not to tell me her name,” Angus says, sitting in his chair at the table. “Which means you know her name. I feel like a detective who's missing clues.”

“Sometimes respect is more important than information, Angus,” Mr. Mcdonald chides. “She might come back for you, someday. I'm sure she won't withhold the nature of your relationship.”

“Mhm,” Angus mumbles.

 

As his grandpa's heath wanes, Angus finds himself taking on more and more detective jobs. His nose gets deeper and deeper into library books, into police reports and top secret files. He makes a decent living wage throwing himself into danger. He teaches himself how to fire a crossbow, and practices every night. He learns how to hide his tail in unfriendly places, and how to use it in a fight. He amuses his grandpa by sitting in his room,leaning against a wall and balanced on his tail, reading his favorite books aloud.

Every night, Angus falls on his bed, totally exhausted. He'd love to have a job that didn't require quite so much travel, or that insured him a place to stay should he run out of money to spare. It's silly. He's ten, and sure, he's not an adult by human or gnomish standards, but he's smart and he can hold his own.

What would be adulthood for a half gnome be, anyway? How long will he live? Half elves have tiny lifespans compared to elves. Maybe he's too strange, and his genes are mixed up. Maybe he won't even live to gnomish adulthood, maybe he'll be dead by the time he's twenty-five. Angus boards the Rockport Limited, chasing a murderer, and pushes his stupid fears from his head. He's more likely to get murdered than to die of old age, he reasons.

He doesn't expect to encounter members of a secret society, to get sucked in on the details of their mission. Their words and mouths blur as they describe their job.

He's dreamed of having a job like theirs. Becoming secret, disappearing in the waning light like his mother did ten years ago. Days after he leaves that train, weeks after meeting the boys, he still thinks of them. In fact, he finds himself writing down clues about the mysterious organization they work for.

When Grandpa passes on, Angus finds himself buried even deeper in the mystery. It's much easier to deal with one's emotions when one can ignore them. There's a barrier of some sort, keeping these people from telling him what he wants to know. He follows them. Tracks them down for days, gets them to tell him everything they can.

“Listen kid,” says the orc lady, Killian. “We can't tell you. It's not a curse. I hate that I keep having to explain this.”

“Ma'am, can't you tell me what exactly is preventing you from describing your group?”

“It's the ~~voidfish~~ ,” Killian sighs. Angus nods.

 _It's an object of some kind_ , he writes. _Killian used the definite article to describe it._

“Thank you, Ma'am,” He grins, hopping off the bench. “Tell your leader I said hi.”

“She says get out of our hair,” Killian grumbles.

“I won't,” Angus promises.

He starts looking for very specific missing persons jobs.

 

“The stupid gnome boy was back again,” Killian grumbles at the end of her debrief. “The kid who's been trailing us.”

“Gnome boy? You didn't specify his race before.” Lucretia folds her hands. She has a soft spot for gnomes.

“Well, he's not a gnome,” Killian shrugs. “He's too tall to be a gnome. But he's got a tail and those weird front teeth and big ears, so he looks kinda like a gnome.”

Lucretia raises an eyebrow. She knows the boys met Angus last mission, but she hadn't expected him to be tailing them. It didn't seem like a particularly lucrative choice. Then again…

“I'll bet he's after the missing persons reports,” she says. Killian's eyebrows shoot up.

“Shit, you're right.”

Lucretia sighs. It wouldn't be her first choice to bring her son to the base – especially since she can't be sure how much Mr. Mcdonald might have told him, or whether he had kept his promises. But with the amount the boy knows, with how much he could have figured out, it seems the best option at this point.

“If you converse with him again, take him back with you. That is, if he complies. I don't see why you should force him.”

“Director, he's like – he's like ten!”

“And I'm like fifty. I can take care of a ten year old boy, Killian.”

“Have you done it before? You're like, an alcoholic spinster.”

“I do have a child,” Lucretia sighs, lowering her head onto the palm of her hand. “And it's none of your business. You're dismissed.”

“Yes, Ma'am.” Killian leaves the room.

Lucretia reaches under her desk and digs out some cheap wine. She goes back to her private quarters and fetches some vodka, because wine does nothing for her anymore and she wants to be drunk. Davenport's standing in the hallway. He watches her, wide violet eyes processing as she pours some vodka into her wineglass and pockets the bottle.

She offers him a wan smile and heads back to her office, filling the rest of her glass with wine. She downs the entire cocktail without thought.

 

Angus finds the moon base fascinating. He's incredibly dizzy, of course, until he has a sampling of the voidfish's ichor-- which is even more amazing! There's so many clues about the missing persons reports, abut the journey on the Rockport Limited, about Killian, flooding his brain in just a second! Imagine if this could be broadcast!

He follows Killian to the Director's office, which is behind a room containing a throne which looks intimidating. He wonders if that's the Director's, too, or if there's an even higher power here. Killian rambles on about their missions, about their duty, and tells him about the relic wars. It's fascinating.

The director turns out to be a woman who appears to be in her mid fifties, nursing a mug of coffee, deep bags under her eyes. She's thin and forlorn. Her hair is white.

Angus wonders how common blonde hair is in humans, because his mother had dark skin and light hair. Maybe it whitened as she aged. Grandpa's hair was doing that, when he died.

All these memories are messing with Angus's first appearances. He pushes them aside. “Hello, Ma'am! I'm Angus! Angus Mcdonald!”

“I know,” she says. Her voice is soft and deep and warm. “I've heard so much about you. Thank you, Killian,” she adds to her employee.

Killian turns and leaves.

“Now,” the director says. “Welcome to the bureau of balance. You my call me Madam Director. It's very nice to finally make your acquaintance.” She holds out a hand, which Angus shakes. “You can sit, if you like. Would you like some tea?”

“Oh! Yes, Ma'am!” Angus says, sitting in the plush chair across from the Director's.

“One moment, then!” She stands up, opens a door to the back of her office, and calls into what sounds like a large hallway. “Davenport! Could you put on the tea?”

Angus hears a voice reply, but doesn't hear what they say. The director seems satisfied, though, because she shuts the door and sits back down in her chair.

The Director explains what being a seeker is going to mean for Angus, and he sits attentively. It doesn't take long to go over the basics, because Angus is smart and polite. She does warn him that he might be working with folks who aren't so easy to deal with.

“Do you mean Magnus, Merle, and Taako?”

The Director chuckles. “Yes, those three. I know you've encountered their antics before. They're not much better with anyone else, but I'm afraid you might get the brunt of it.”

“Don't worry, Madam Director, I can handle it!” Angus says.

“Davenport!” a redheaded gnome comes in from the back rooms, holding a tea tray. “Davenport?”

Angus starts.

“Thank you, Davenport,” the Director says, taking the tea tray. Davenport smiles at her. There's something in the communication that Angus is missing, but then again, Angus is rather distracted.

 _Y_ _our father. He only said his own name._

_You know, red's an odd hair color for a gnome._

Angus watches Davenport slide back through the door he came from. He stares at the door until the Director clears her throat and he's snapping back to attention, embarrassed that he ever strayed from it. His tail flicks behind the chair.

“Sorry, Ma'am,” he says, accepting the proffered tea. “Just got lost thinking about my dad.”

The Director nods, her lips pursed into a line. “Anyway, you start work as soon as the boys get back. I'll show you to your room, you can get set up and spend that time getting familiar with the campus, if you'd like.”

She rummages in her desk and pulls out a stone of farspeech. “Take this-- oh hold on, actually.” She messes with the frequency, reaching under her shirt and tapping a gem there. “Don't use that frequency unless it's an emergency, though.”

“Thank you, Ma'am!” Angus says, and pockets the stone.

“Alright. Well, since I've seen what you're capable of in the field, I don't feel the need to put you through any challenges. Here.” She hands him a bracer. “Should fit.”

It looks like it should fit. Angus is puzzled, no one measured his wrists. “How do you know?”

“Just trust me.”

It does fit. It fits perfectly, snug on his left arm. Angus feels extremely official. He sits up straighter in his chair.

The Director stands up, then, and – oh my, she's tall, Angus notes – smiles down at him. “Alright. I'll show you to your quarters, and then I think we can call this meeting adjourned. I'll leave you with a map so you won't get lost on your way to the cafeteria. Don't be afraid to ask for directions, if the staff isn't friendly I'll see to it that they face me.”

“Yes, Ma'am!” Angus grins, puttering after her.

 

That night, Angus lies awake thinking about Davenport. It's too huge a coincidence, right? A red haired gnome who only says his own name.

He giggles to himself. Wow. Who would have thought that his dad would be a butler for the leader of a secret organization on a base on the moon? The second moon has been in the sky as long as he can remember.

He curls on his side, staring at the far wall. Why _is_ his dad the butler for the leader of a secret organization? How'd he end up with _this_ job? Angus had supposed he would still be with his mom, and yet… And yet, he hasn't seen anyone in his short time here that fits the description of his mom.

_Maybe his mom is dead?_

No, that can't be it. She's too magical, too powerful to die.

_Unless she was reckless._

Angus shakes away the thought.

When he finally falls asleep, he dreams of his mother. It's not a good dream.

 

Angus likes the Voidfish's chambers. It's calm and bright and so often full of music. Listening to Johann create with his violin, or occasionally just humming to himself, is more relaxing to any detective work in the world. So Angus finds himself going downstairs, sitting against the Voidfish's glass tank, and listening to the melodies more often than he would have thought.

“The Director sure took a liking to you,” Johann says, tucking away his violin.

“Oh, yes sir,” Angus says. “Though I think It's because I'm a little boy!”

“I suppose,” Johann mumbles. “S normal for women her age to want children.”

“I haven't heard that before, sir!” Angus says. “Isn't she kinda old for children?”

“Well, Kid, she's only like thirty.” He clicks shut his violin case.

“But--” Angus chews his bottom lip. “She doesn't _look_ thirty.”

“I don't know. Avi says she came back one day before the moon base looking about two decades older. That was back when she was trying to collect relics on her own.”

Angus opens up his notebook and writes down the newfound information. “Do you know why?”

Johann plops himself down next to Angus. “Angus, everyone on this base has some sort of burden. The reclaimers are clearly veterans, even if they don't talk about it. Davenport doesn't speak. Avi's been here too long. I'm sure you'll meet Lucas eventually. The Director isn't an exception. In fact, I would say that she's the most cursed of us all.”

“Wow, sir,” Angus says. “I never thought of it that way.”

 

He figures out her name before the candlenights party.

It's not a huge secret, not for anyone but her.

 

All Davenport says is his own name.

And yes, Angus is now painfully, painfully aware that Davenport is definitely his father. The evidence all adds up. As they spend more time together, even, Angus notices the little fatherly things Davenport does, like ruffling his hair and ushering him out the door before it gets too late with a stern 'Davenport.' Angus chalks those up to little moments of clarity for the gnome.

It's okay, some evenings, like the evening when he played checkers with Davenport while they waited for the team to come back. Usually Davenport lost, but sometimes, to Angus's surprise, he won. It seems to bring a little clarity to him.

Today, Angus is settled down in the big throne chamber, his journal in his lap, when Davenport comes trotting in, carrying a little cup of tea.

“Davenport!”

“Hello sir!”

“Davenport?” Davenport makes a motion like picking up and putting down a checkers piece.

“Oh-- sure, sir! I don't have my checkers set with me, though, should I--”

“Davenport.” He pushes the tea to Angus, pats him on the shoulder, and leaves the room again. Angus takes a sip.

Davenport returns with a very old and very fancy checkers set. It looks like it took years to craft, with impeccable detailing, and also like it's nearing its hundredth birthday. He puts it down on the floor, sits cross-legged, and starts getting the board together. It has a complex mechanism to it, but Davenport knows exactly how to make it work.

Davenport hums a little tune Angus has never heard before while he works.

“What song is that, sir?”

“Davenport!” He grins, points to himself. Then he goes back to humming, a little more confident, taking checkers pieces out of a bag.

“You wrote it, sir?”

Davenport nods. The set is ready. Angus puts his journal aside and the tea on top of it, leaning forward. They begin to play.

Davenport keeps humming as they play, and Angus figures out the refrain to the little song and hums along. He gets a little distracted, but has a good time. Davenport wins. Angus sits back, sipping his now-tepid tea.

“Do you want to play again?” Angus asks. He's already removing pieces from the board, stacking them on either side in neat little rows.

Davenport shakes his head. He looks forlorn.

“You doing okay, sir?”

Davenport looks up at Angus, his eyes clearer than the boy has ever seen them.

“Angus.”

“Oh my, Sir! You just--”

He leans forward, puts a small hand on Angus's leg. “I'm sorry.”

“Sir?” Angus feels frozen in place. What did he just say? He dares a whisper. “Dad?”

Davenport gets up, walks around the chess set and wraps his arms around Angus. “Angus.”

“Y-yes, sir.”

Davenport plops down in Angus's lap, arms still wrapped around his torso, and buries his face in Angus's shirt. Angus, unsure how to react, puts his own arms around him. He can feel tremors running through Davenport's body, and realizes he's crying. Eventually, he falls asleep. Angus leans back against the wall and writes in his journal.

The director comes striding in, about an hour later, and promptly trips over the checkers set. She catches herself before she falls, then stares at the game board with a mixture of astonishment and sadness on her face. Then she looks beyond it, spots Angus.

“Hello, Director,” Angus says.

“Oh, Hello Angus,” she says, and the surprise vanishes, leaving a deflated look in its wake.

“Sorry about the checkers set. Davenport fell asleep in my lap and I didn't want to move him.”

“I'm not upset with you.” Lucretia kneels down, unclicking the set and folding it back up. She seems to know how just as well as Davenport does. She huffs, picking up the pieces, counting them, and putting them in the bag. Then she puts the set next to Angus's empty teacup and scootches forward. She ruffles Davenport's hair. “I can take him to bed, if you like.”

“I don't want to leave him,” Angus says.

She sighs. “He wouldn't want to leave you, either.”

There's a long pause as the cogs in Angus's brain turn. Lucretia looks at a spot on the floor a few feet from them. She obviously knows Davenport is his father, but-- why? How?

“Is there anything I can get you?” she asks, finally.

“I wouldn't mind reading my books but I left them all in my room!” Angus says. “But you don't have to do that, Director, I know you're awfully busy.”

“You can call me Lucretia,” she says. “And it's perfectly alright. I am your caretaker. I'll be back.”

She takes the teacup and the chess set, too, and when she returns she has the Caleb Cleveland book that Angus was partway through. Instead of handing it to him, though, she sits down on the floor.

“Can I read this aloud?”

“Oh – sure!” Angus shuffles to sit up straighter, gripping his tail in his hand.

They sit on the floor of the throne room for a while, Lucretia reading about detectives. Occasionally, she chuckles. Sometimes, she sighs. She does all the voices.

Angus feels safe.

 

A few days later, Angus decides to trap Lucretia in her office for questioning. It's exhilarating, for a moment, closing the door behind him – because he hasn't done this type of detective work in a while.

“Madam director.”

“Hello, Angus. Why so serious?” She hasn't looked up from her notebook. Her left hand skims the page while her right turns the pages of a different journal.

“I have questions.”

Lucretia puts her pen down and closes the journal her right hand had been flipping through. “Alright.”

“Ma'am, why are you in charge of my father?” He sits down in the chair across from hers. There's something she's hiding, he can tell. He doesn't know ho far he can press her before she'll get angry.

“How do you know he's your father?”

“I know my father has red hair. I know my father is a gnome. I know my father only ever says his own name. I made an educated guess.” He rakes his fingers through the fur on his tail. “Besides, he apologized to me yesterday. I don't know why, but you don't apologize to people you don't know super well without a reason, do you?”

“Hm.” Lucretia's fingers run down the wood texture of her staff. “Well,” she pauses, seeming careful with her words, “I'm sorry you had to find out like this.” She sips her coffee.

“It's okay, Ma'am! I'm sure you didn't have anything to do with it. Grandpa said he was pretty much mute even when Mom came to drop me off.”

Lucretia's eyebrows knit together, a frown sinking into her eyes. Angus is simultaneously suspicious and worried. He fights the urge to hug her. He'd almost definitely knock over her coffee if he did that. “No, of course not.”

“Also,” he says. “Johann says you're in your thirties. What exactly happened?”

Lucretia groans, rubbing her temples. “That's a long story.”

“It's okay! You don't have to explain--”

“No, actually, this is relevant to your job. The boys may be going to that place soon. So,” She takes a deep breath. “Angus, have you ever heard of Wonderland?”

 

Angus is sitting on his bed reading Caleb Cleveland when Davenport bursts into his room, looking frantic.

“Davenport!” Davenport grabs his hand. “Davenport!”  
“Sir?”

“Angus!”

“That's me, sir.”

Davenport drags Angus out of the room and onto the campus, pointing at the sky. It's dark out, and the sky looks empty.

“What is it, Dad?”

“Davenport!” Davenport points at a star, just as it winks out.

“Whoa,” Angus says. “Did you tell the director?”

“Davenport,”  
“I don't know if that's a yes or a no, so come on!” Angus starts off in the direction of her office, Davenport on his heels.

He bursts through the door without knocking. “Miss Lucretia, the stars are going out!”

She is _sloshed_. It takes Angus fifteen seconds of looking to see that she is totally drunk. Feeling like an intruder, Angus backs towards the door. Lucretia lifts her head off the desk and stares at him with big brown eyes.

“Yea I know,” she slurs. “'Ve known since midsummer.” She puts her head back on the desk. “Sok, sweetie. We're jus' gonna die.”

“Davenport,” Davenport scolds, heading through the door behind her office.

“You've known since-- the screaming in the sky is related to the stars going out?”

“Yep.” She pops the P.

“How do you know?”

“Been there, done that. Wrecked a universe.”

“No offense, Ma'am, maybe it's just me, but I can't seem to parse that sentence.”

“s'okay.”

Davenport returns with a glass of water and forces it into Lucretia's hand.

“Don' wanna, Dav, I'm so done,” She mutters, but she drinks the water. “So done with this bullshit.”

“Davenport,” he reaches up and rubs her back. “Davenport.”

“No idea what'chu sayin, Dav.” She coughs and drinks more water. “S'your brain all static like my skin?”

“Davenport.”

“Love you too.”

Angus feels distinctly out of place all of a sudden. He has no idea what the nature of Lucretia and Davenport's relationship is, but it suddenly feels more familial than it had before. He steels himself, remembering that Davenport is his father.

Lucretia chooses that moment to pass out and fall on the floor, landing in an ungraceful heap.

“Oh gods, is she okay?” Angus rushes over, kneeling down next to her. Davenport puts a hand on his shoulder, distracting him for a moment. He looks up.

Davenport gives him a knowing look and disappears into that back room again. When he returns, he's holding a blanket. It's old as hell and worn and the same light blue as the Bureau's colors. He drapes it over Lucretia, kissing her on the forehead before taking a step back.

“Is she gonna be okay?”

“Davenport,” Davenport says.

“Does this happen often?”

Something like a laugh comes out of the gnome's mouth. Angus takes that as a yes.

“Angus.”

They head out of Lucretia's office, shutting it gently behind them. Angus heads back in the direction of his room, and Davenport follows.

“It's not a very gnomish name, is it? Mom must have named me.” Angus shrugs. “I suppose that makes sense. You were already like this when she left me at Grandpa's.”

“Davenport.”

“Davenport isn't a very gnomish name either, though.”

They're quiet for the rest of the walk.

 

The world has ended, and Davenport's full of so many conflicting thoughts. He was fine, mostly; he made it, he's safe. He watches Lucretia's bubble encircle the hunger from safe on the ground, then gets up, brushes himself off, and sets off to find his son.

Because Davenport has a son, a son he couldn't talk to for eleven whole years. A son he was in contact with, but couldn't communicate with. It was, well, it wasn't fine, but the static made everything so impossible. Davenport is just glad that's over.

He finds Angus in the med bay, sitting on a bed while a cleric attempts to extricate an arrowhead from his shoulder. He doesn't look like he's been given any pain meds, either-- His tail is curled around one of the bedposts, his teeth dug into his lip so hard that a little blood is beading. His eyes are squinched shut and his hands are dug into the covers on the bed so hard that he looks like he might tear bits of fabric off. Tremors run down his form, and every time the doctor reaches in with the tweezers, he flinches.

Davenport blinks himself out of this observation. He's done too much watching from the sidelines. He strides towards the bed, catches the doctor's attention to get him to stop for a moment, and faces Angus.

“Angus.”

Angus opens his eyes, and Davenport realizes he's also crying. Poor kid. Davenport reaches up on his tip-toes and wipes tears off the boy's chin.

“Daven-- S- Dad?” Angus says. His voice is hoarse and tired. His eye's look so much like Lucretia's, Davenport almost has to look away.

Davenport chuckles, to his own surprise. “You're so much like your mother,” he says, and then he climbs up on the bed and sits down next to him.

“No offense, sir, but a cleric was in the middle of taking an arrowhead out of my shoulder and I'm not entirely sure I'm with it right now.” He takes a breath. “It hurts a lot, sir. Also you're the captain of the starblaster crew. I'm not exactly with it, Sir.”

“It might be easier if you hold my hand,” Davenport says, offering his palm. Angus takes it. Davenport can feel the tension running through his body as the doctor starts working again. Angus whimpers as the cleric pulls a big chunk of metal out, dropping it with a clunk into the tray. Davenport gives his hand a squeeze.

Angus's fingers relax when the cleric finally heals the wound, tension sapping from his whole body. He slumps against Davenport.

“Whoa, Angus! I'm two feet shorter than you.” He doesn't insist that the boy move, though. Angus giggles a little and pushes himself back up.

“Sorry, sir.” He sighs. “It's been a real long day.”

“You didn't sleep last night, either,” Davenport says. “You were up worrying with Lucretia.”

“Oh gods, sir, Lucretia. I'm so sorry, what she did-- you lost a lot.”

“I'll have to make it work,” Davenport sighs. He wasn't ready to take care of a child with Lucretia, but at least he had the help of the whole crew if he wanted it. He wants to go out to sea and never come back, he wants to banish himself from this universe and start new somewhere else. He remembers feeling the same way at the IPRE headquarters, too busy and cooped up and ready to be away from it all, even if only for two short months.

Two long months, and one hundred long, long years.

“You'll have to make it work?”

“Well, I don't think either of us were prepared to have a child. Lucretia even less so than me, perhaps, seeing how it went. I'm, well, upset with her, of course, but wrath… wrath isn't always the best option.”

“Lucretia?” Angus says, and when Davenport looks up, the boy looks far away. His eyes are foggy and vague.

“Yes, your mother. Did you...”

“Lucretia is my mother?”

“Yes--”

Angus looks at Davenport and Davenport shuts his mouth for a moment, because the look of disbelief on Angus's face is tangible.

“You've lost a lot of blood, Angus. Let's get you to your dorms. You can think about this more in the morning.”

“O-oh, yes, sir,” Angus says, hopping down from the bed. Davenport follows, still holding Angus's hand.

He leads the boy down the halls, across the quad, back to his quarters. Thankfully, they're still fully intact, though the place has been shaken a little. Davenport helps Angus find an unbloodied shirt and unties his shoes when his fingers are shaking too much. He pours him a glass of water. He's been silent since they left the med bay, his gaze still distant. He stares at not much of anything.

“Lie down, you can think about this in the morning,” Davenport says.

“Okay,” Angus says. He blinks a few times before climbing over the covers and rolling over. His tail hangs off the side of the bed, limp. Beds and tails never quite get along the way one wants them to.

“Goodnight, son,” Davenport says, blowing out the lamp.

“Night,” Angus mumbles.

 

Angus doesn't sleep. He lies awake, tangled in the sheets, feeling distant and very, very alone. He wishes Davenport had stayed.

Lucretia hit him when he cried, once.

She also held him when he cried, once.

Angus loves Lucretia. She's been his mother figure for a long time. But he can't sleep, and despite the spinning in his head, he sits up and throws off the covers and goes running down the hall.

He doesn't give a shit, right now. Too much happened today. For the first time in his whole life, he wishes he knew less in that moment. He wishes he didn't have all of his family's deaths running over and over again in his brain. He feels stuck a bit, stuck in Lucretia's year alone, stuck in the static fog the voidfish left, the kind he used to prod at like it was a fascinating mystery. He doesn't like it anymore, and so he keeps running.

Angus finds Lucretia asleep on the floor of her office, one hand still holding a mostly empty wine bottle. For a moment, he thinks about waking her, but then, she needs the rest, and besides, she'd probably still be drunk if he did. He takes the bottle out of her hands, clears away a few empty ones nearby, and curls up in her arms.

“Gnight, Dav,” Lucretia mumbles, awake still on some level. She pulls him closer.

“Goodnight, mom,” Angus replies, burying his head in her robes. That's confirmation right there. His heart sinks in his chest.

Angus, finally, weighed down by the levels of information he's taken in in one day, sinks into sleep.

 

Lucretia wakes up to a hangover, of course. It throbs in the back of her head and makes her wince. She doesn't want to open her eyes, because she's sure the light's going to be on or the window's going to be open or _something_ from the millions of things that hate her existence is going to be spiting her choices. Not that she doesn't deserve it, but Lucretia is tired, and would like a goddamn break.

She realizes she's holding something she definitely didn't fall asleep holding. Something warm, something breathing. She opens her eyes and learns that the room is, thankfully, still dark.

And there's a shoe a few feet from her nose.

Lucretia looks around, wincing a little as she moves her head, and finds that Angus is curled in her arms and Davenport is standing over her, arms folded.

“Morning,” Lucretia rasps.

“Lucretia.” Davenport kneels down. He looks livid.

“Da-Andrew.”  
“What the hell, Lucretia?”

Lucretia curls in on herself a little, stops when Angus shifts. He head clangs harder when Davenport raises his voice, but she doesn't tell him to be quiet. She doesn't have the right. She already took his words away for years and years, he deserves to say them as loud as he wants.

“What the hell-- What the _fuck_? You took away everyone's memories for your plan without consulting _any_ of us, and then – what? I was hardly sapient and you just left it _be_? And then our child!! Don't even get me _started_! You _gave_ him that childhood, Lucretia. That's _your_ fault. That's on _you_. And if he hates you for it, you have to live with it, _alright_?”

“Of course.”

Davenport sits down on the ground, rakes his fingers down the sides of his face. “Gods almighty! I'd love to just leave, Lucretia, but it looks like I can't do that, hm? Because I have a fucking _son_.”

Lucretia winces.

“And what's worse! _You didn't even tell him that you're his fucking mother._ What the HELL, Lucretia? What the _Hell_? Was it your plan to hire him from the start?”

“No, I--”

“ _Shut up!!_ ”

Angus whimpers and rolls over, blinking awake at the noise. He looks at Davenport with wide eyes. “Dad?”

“Angus--”

“Dad, it's okay,” he sits up. “We'll make it work.”

Lucretia pulls her knees to her chest. Angus was just about the last person she ever expected to defend her.

“How did you know what we were – nevermind. She let you fight in a _war._ ”

“I'm a detective, sir. I would have fought in the war anyway.” Angus sighs. “I have mixed feelings, but, that's what the birds do best, right sir? You make it work. You made it work for a hundred years, right?”

Davenport deflates. “I just want to be done with… that.”

“Everybody has to try to make things better, Dad, no matter what cards they're handed,” Angus says. “And really, I'm just glad I met both of you.”

**Author's Note:**

> the faces that I see look so familiar,  
> but they're just strangers,  
> I haven't met them yet.
> 
> I know the morning is wiser than the evening,  
> i know that wrong and right can sometimes look the same.  
> so many things I know but they don't help me  
> each day I open up my eyes and start again.
> 
> so many stories I want to tell you.  
> I wish that i could show you the many thingss I've seen.  
> you and your daddy  
> you both look like poets.  
> your eyes are open wide while you are in a dream.  
> \--Regina Spektor, _the light_


End file.
